Friday, November 18, 2011

A Conclusion

   The world’s a fucking shit-hole. The really sick part is that we’re born with the capacity to conceive something better; I guess you could say that makes this place hell. The only thing to do is to try and be kind.

Monday, November 14, 2011

In Summation

There is no doubt in my mind that the gargantuan audience is still watching from their perch From which they also spy the leaves
That caress the faces of the inevitable sirens of solace and silence and solitude
Without which the poets and the writers would be reduced to mere flickers
On the screen that is the walls of my small studio apartment
In the avenues of this city of light and darkness
Which every city in this great and monstrous country will claim to be at intervening intercourses in the interstellar maze of haze and pottery glaze
The wonderment of the stars without me peers down through the glory holes of the mall stall
The beanies and the braids mingle together under the umbrella of primetime television
And utter despair at the confusing cosmos and burning effigies of the soul
With this last dark night I will let this lone man stand un-judged and alone
In as true a peace as anyone might ever know
At least through the frames of my thin nearly unnecessary spectacles
Through which I also perceive eternity from my own small pinhole
In a black piece of cardstock
In my tiny third grade chair